The Submission - Amy Waldman [81]
In the long silence that followed, Alyssa gobbled the meat pie she had ordered, hoping to absorb some of the acid in her stomach, even as she motioned to the surly waiter for another espresso. She was still chewing when Claire spoke.
“You really are despicable, trying to smear him,” she said, curling her mouth in disapproval.
Alyssa shrugged. “I wasn’t trying to smear him. I’m probably not even going to publish it,” she said, not mentioning that, per Oscar’s condition, she couldn’t, or that the report had been dismissed because it came from an architect competing against ROI to design the new embassy and clearly trying to gain advantage. The “threat” was an offhand comment Mo had made. Alyssa didn’t know what it was. Usually it was the Afghans narcing on each other to settle scores or win some personal gain, Oscar’s friend had told him. This one lodged in memory because it was one American trying to shank another, using Mo’s being Muslim to do it. Alyssa felt no guilt about sharing only part of this story with Claire. Fabricating reality was criminal; editing it, commonplace.
“I thought you would want to know, as you weigh things,” she said. “And I wanted to talk to you, and it was a way to get through. So now how about it”—she paused to extract her tape recorder from her purse—“you going to keep your promise, or what?”
Claire glared at her. “If you’re not going to quote me, why are you taping it?”
“For my own protection,” Alyssa said with all the sincerity she could muster. “And yours.”
The interview was a mess, as those conducted at gunpoint often are. Claire looked like she would have preferred to confide in the Albanian thugs. Her posture was so obdurate, her utterances so miserly, that Alyssa worried whether she could fill a story. She opted for provocation.
“Do you trust Mohammad Khan?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Claire snapped.
“Well, put another way, how much do you know about what he thinks? Putting aside whether this garden is or isn’t a martyrs’ paradise—and we all know he won’t say, although I’m not clear on why he won’t say—what’s his position on jihad? On whether it’s right for America to be in Afghanistan? On what brought the buildings down—does he subscribe to all the conspiracy theories saying it was an inside job? Does he think America got what it deserved?”
“None of that is relevant,” Claire said.
“Really?” Alyssa said. “You really believe that? It’s not relevant if he would be happy if the American embassy was blown up? Or if he believes Mossad or the CIA carried out the attack? You’d still want him to build your memorial?”
“Why don’t you ask him these questions?” Claire snarled.
“He’s not building a memorial to my husband,” Alyssa said, wondering if this made it sound like she had a husband.
Tears filled Claire’s eyes but, as if they knew their place, didn’t leave. “We can’t ask him,” she said, in a subdued voice. “We’re not allowed—it wouldn’t be fair to him.”
“Is it fair to you?” Some secular lust was burning in Alyssa, the desire to hack at this glacier of a woman, to push her harder and harder until she confronted her own hypocrisies, the impossibility—the ridiculousness—of her position. Alyssa wanted to see Claire Burwell’s principles collapse beneath her, and she was dimly aware that this desire told as much about her, Alyssa, as it did about Claire. Being a Columnist, trying to influence invisible masses, didn’t suit her. But using information, insinuation, and the right line of questioning to rewire a woman in front of her eyes—that was a scary rush of a high.
“Can you live with never knowing the answers to those questions?” she asked.
“I have to,” Claire whispered. Her hands were limp in her lap, her head slightly bowed. She was almost docile now, before Alyssa’s onslaught, as if she was being justifiably berated.
“Or are you scared to know the answer? What if he does hate your husband, or everyone like your husband? What if he hates you, the infidel widow? Are there no conditions under which you would say he’s not suitable?”
Claire’s